


An Overpowering Staleness

by Yamx



Series: Those We Love the Best [16]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Fobwatched!Doctor, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-19
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamx/pseuds/Yamx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sahiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/gifts).



> This story was written for Sahiya, who very generously donated in the _Help Haiti_ auction. Her prompt will be revealed at the end.
> 
> Thanks to Canaan, [Kae_nine](http://kae-nine.livejournal.com/) & [Wendymr](http://wendymr.livejournal.com/) for betaing.

       An overpowering staleness holds  
       This mortal flesh.

       Though well I love to feel the rain,  
       And be by winds well blown --  
       The mystery of mortal life  
       Doth press me down.  
            [ _The Dark Hour_](http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/william_henry_davies/poems/3078) by William Henry Davies

  


  
**Chapter 1**   


John Smith tips his head all the way back, desperately trying to suck one more drop of cheap vodka from the bottle he's holding almost vertically, but none comes.

"Bloody hell!" With a frustrated cry, he throws the bottle across the alley. It smashes into myriad little pieces on the brick wall opposite.

Milly, the old crazy woman huddled against her shopping trolley a few meters away, looks up, mumbling annoyed curses into her shawl, and the girl with all the piercings and the purple hair – John doesn't know her name, so he just thinks of her as "the purple kid" – pulls her little sister – "the goth kid" – closer to herself and yells "Fuck off!" in John's direction. There are some dissatisfied mumbles from the others further down the alley, but mostly, they all mind their own business. They don't bother each other here.

He grunts and leans back against the wall, letting the back of his head hit the bricks a few times. Pain is good. It takes his mind off the cold, the hunger, and the goddamn lack of alcohol. He starts going through the pockets of his leather jacket – sometimes he finds a bottle or a few quid that he didn't know he had. But not this time. Strings, strange bits of metal, nothing even vaguely useful.

His hand curls around a solid round form, and for a moment he examines the old silver fob watch critically. He's not sure where he got it – always had it, as far as he knows. Probably stole it at some point, though. He briefly considers taking it down to the pawnshop, see if Fat Al will give him a bottle of vodka or two for it. But somehow he finds it difficult to focus on the thought, as if something is distracting-

He looks up, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets absentmindedly. Oh, hell. It's _them_ again. Bloody do-gooders. He's really not in the mood for their shit right now.

The young couple pick their way through the trash and debris in the alley slowly. The man – tall bloke, military posture, says his name is Jack, but John's not sure he believes him – keeps an arm protectively around the girl's waist. Rose. He's pretty sure she wasn't lying when she introduced herself, but who knows? Eyes that big and guileless come attached either to true innocents or to liars to whom the truth is such an unfamiliar concept that they don't even see themselves as dishonest. She sounds like she's from London, and the bloke seems to be American. Damn Yanks. Always think they can change the world.

They started coming here a few weeks ago. John doesn’t quite remember when. Not too long after he moved to this part of Manchester, he thinks. Though he only has fuzzy memories of when that was, or where he was before. Damn vodka.

Blessed vodka. He's almost certain it's better not to know.

The girl's passing out food again. Sandwiches, it looks like, fresh and hot, still in their Subway wrappers.

Food. It's always food. When the couple first turned up, when he first realized that they seemed to have a special interest in him in particular – god knows why, but he can see it in their furtive glances, their gestures, hell, he can almost smell it on them – he thought maybe he'd be able to finagle a bottle out of them every now and then. Or a few quid that he'd swear he'd spend on food but would carry to the off-licence the moment the two of them left. But no. Food. Always food. Good food, no doubt – not that he's in a position to be choosy anyway, but the two seem to have an uncanny talent to pick out his particular favorites, though he's never said two words to them.

But damn it all to hell, he needs a bottle of vodka to make it through the night.

They stop in front of him. Black boots, pink trainers. He doesn’t look up, just waits for the girl to hand him his food, and for the bloke to start the pep talk. But they just stand, not moving, not speaking.

Well, he sure as hell isn't going to make the first move. He just stares at their shoes, drumming an impatient rhythm on his thigh.

Rose's feet shuffle. In his peripheral vision, he sees Jack's hand slipping into hers, squeezing. She stills, and her weight shifts slightly to lean against him. What the bloody hell are they waiting for?

"You to look at us," Rose says quietly, sounding like she's almost crying. Damn, did he ask that out loud? He must still be more drunk than he feels.

"John," Jack adds quietly. "Look at us." His voice is hovering at the edge of persuasion and plea.

Hell, not like it really matters. He has no dignity to hold on to anymore. He rolls his head back, squinting against the bright winter sky, and looks at them.

Jack – clean-shaven, well-groomed, neat as always. Looking at him calmly, neither smiling nor frowning, his face betraying nothing but polite interest. Rose – wearing too much make-up again, but in practical, serviceable clothes, and with a brave smile that would touch his heart if he had one. But he thinks he must have pawned it off to Fat Al years ago, because pretty young things whose eyes are shining with unshed tears just don't mean shit to him anymore.

God, he detests them. Coming here with their smell of soap and their warm jackets, thinking they can make an impact on people whose lives are so different from theirs they might as well be from a different planet. He'd tell them so right now, throw rubbish and empty bottles at them until they leave, if it weren't for one thing: they've run out of sandwiches. They miscounted. Forgot one. Or maybe they expected fewer people in the alley today. The Spanish guy's turned up a bit earlier than usual, loitering near the entrance of the alley, always keeping one eye out for god knows what.

If he plays his cards right, maybe, just maybe, they'll feel guilty enough to give him cash today. Just a few quid. He doesn’t need much. The off-licence carries the kind of gut-rot that will knock you out for a night at less than the price of a Big Mac.

John does something he hasn't done in longer than he can remember. He smiles. Or tries to. His facial muscles are unused to the motion, the tension in his jaw makes it feel unnatural, and in the end, he's not sure if he's smiling or grimacing. The concerned frowns on both their faces seem to hint towards the latter.

"Are you all right?" Rose asks, squatting in front of him. He can see her almost reaching out a hand, then pulling it back at the last second. He pretends not to notice.

"Just… hungry," he says.

They exchange a glance. Fuck, please let this work. Make them give him some money, rather than running back to the market and buying another sandwich.

He can see Rose gesturing towards himself with her chin, and Jack raise an eyebrow, cocking his head at Rose. His whole body is asking "Are you sure?" and her determined nod says "Yes, do it!" What the hell are they planning? He finds them so easy to read, up to a point – eerily easy, almost, as if he's known them for ages – but then, they'll come out with things that will knock him for a loop.

"John," Jack says, a charming smile that must have been what got him Rose in the first place playing on his lips, "Come to the chippy with us and let's eat together."

Like that. What the hell? Giving him food is one thing, but they want to take him to a place, sit down at a table, be seen with him in public? He's dirty, his jeans are torn, and he knows he must stink to high heaven. Are they trying to prove to themselves that they look past appearances to the person he is within? Because he's pretty sure his soul is even more rotten and disgusting than his outside.

He shakes his head. "I'm fine here."

Rose opens her mouth, clearly about to protest, but Jack squeezes her shoulder. He squats next to her and looks straight at John. Honest – almost a bit _too_ honest.

"Come and eat with us at the chippy, and I'll buy you a bottle of whiskey after. The good stuff."

"What?" Rose turns to him, shocked. "Jack, we can't-"

He shakes his head at her with a meaningful glance, and she subsides, biting her lip and looking back and forth between them.

"What do you say, John? Whole bottle, just for you."

Hell, how bad can it be? A hot meal, probably some inane nattering about how he can escape this life if he'll just believe he can and work on bettering himself or somesuch – things he's heard before, he thinks, from oodles of social workers, though he can't quite recall any of their names or faces right now. And then, if he's judging the bloke right, he'll keep his word and take him to the off-licence, buy him the bottle he needs to get through the night.

"I want vodka. And tea at the chippy," he says, his voice coming out a bit more eager than he would have liked. But hell – they, for incomprehensible reasons, want something from him. They can do this on his terms.

Jack nods immediately. "Vodka it is, then. And all the hot sweet tea you can drink."

How did the bloke know he likes his tea sweet? Well, in this weather, and with the cheap stuff the chippy probably serves, almost anyone would load up on the sugar, he supposes.

He looks from him to Rose. She seems anxious, but sends him an encouraging smile. With a sigh, he pushes off the layer of cardboard he's been sitting on and fights to get to his feet. Jack offers him a hand, which he ignores in favor of leaning against the brick wall. "Lay on, Macduff." He's absurdly pleased that he knows the correct quote doesn’t say, " _Lead_ on," as a Yank like Jack probably thought, though he has no idea how he even knows this, or why it should matter.

*****

John stares at the green formica table. The chippy – called the "Fish Friar" by some genius with a basic understanding of what a pun is but no talent for practical execution – seems clean enough, but not so posh that his appearance would raise any objections. An old radio in the corner is blaring out the latest football results.

The slightly chipped white plate in front of him is overloaded with a huge pile of thick chips and battered cod, and a blob of mushy peas in an unnatural shade of green. A big teapot is squeezed in between their plates and the white plastic bottle of tartar sauce. Rose pours a ridiculous amount of vinegar over her chips, then hands him the bottle. Their fingers touch, but she doesn’t shudder or draw back.

He puts salt and vinegar on his plate, then hands both to Jack. None of them have said a word so far and, as far as he is concerned, they can keep it that way. He digs in without waiting for them. Table manners are for people who can afford them.

Rose and Jack seem unfazed. They smile at him, not indulgent or patronizing, but simply the way one might smile at someone one cares enough about to share a meal with. A real person. Maybe even a friend. Silly of them, but hardly his problem.

They start to eat themselves, the dull knives and forks with bent tines drumming on their plates in a rhythm that reminds him of… togetherness. Comradeship. Something he hasn't experienced since he was in the war.

For a moment, he frowns when he realizes he can't recall which war it was. Then he shrugs and takes a big gulp of tea – strong and sweet, ambrosia for his chilled-through body. Wars are all pretty much the same. What does it matter where he let himself be fucked up for Queen and country? Besides, it'd come to him if he focused on it. Of course it would. He just doesn’t care enough to think about it right now. He'd rather enjoy the food and the warmth. And the comp- the tea. Quite good tea, really, for a place like this.

When their plates are empty and the teapot is drained, he looks at the wall clock. "Off-licence closes in half an hour," he grunts. It's the first thing he's said to them since the alley.

Jack nods and gets up. "Wait here, order some more tea. I'll get your vodka."

He almost jumps up. "Coming with you." Would be just like one of those do-gooders to skip out on him now, to avoid having to give him the demon alcohol. But no way is he going to let them get away with that. He was promised booze, and he's going to get it.

Jack just nods evenly. "If that's what you want." He waits till Rose stands up and helps her into her jacket like one of those schmucks in the old movies. She seems torn, Rose does, as if she's not happy about their errand. But she doesn’t object, or try to convince Jack to go back on his promise.

When they leave the chippy side by side, Rose's hand brushes against John's, and for a moment he almost thinks she's going to take it and curl her fingers into his. But she blushes and pulls back with a mumbled apology. Quite right, too. He doesn’t know where he got that silly notion from.

*****

The shabby off-licence is next to a condemned building. It caters mostly to people like him or blue-collar laborers on their way home from work. Not the kind of place people like Jack, or especially Rose, would usually shop at. But they go in without the slightest hesitation. John exchanges a brief nod with Charlie, the owner. Good guy, by and large. Won't ever give him anything on credit, but really, who could blame him? Today, he seems more interested in figuring out John's companions, anyway. He's only ever come in alone before.

Rose is looking around curiously but without obvious judgment. There's a slight frown on her face, though. Jack, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, as if he frequents this kind of establishment every day. He scans the shelves critically and pulls a bottle of Absolut off the shelf. "Sorry, best they've got," he says with a shrug.

John looks at the price tag and hesitates. "Could get me three bottles of the cheap stuff for that amount."

"Yes," Jack says, "I could." He goes to the counter and pays for the Absolut, then hands the brown paper bag to John with a smile. "But that wasn't the deal."

He scoffs, but takes the bag. Better stuff than he's had since his stint on the… well, that last ship he was stationed on when he was in the Navy. He thinks it might have started with "T," but he's not sure anymore. Too many ships, too long ago, and he cares entirely too little to make an effort to remember.

He goes outside to take the bottle from the bag. Charlie's very strict about "No drinking on the premises." The wonder couple follows him, of course. He rolls his eyes, but grunts a curt "Thanks," at them. If there's one thing he's learned in his life, it's not to burn bridges with people who might be a possible source of food or alcohol in the future.

"You're welcome," Jack says at once. His expression is no different than it might be if he was talking to an old friend whom he'd just given a bottle of vintage wine for a special occasion.

Rose looks unhappy, but forces a smile. "Enjoy."

He laughs – a rough, uneven sound that even he finds repulsive. "Not about enjoyment, pet. Just about getting through the night." He takes a deep swig and is surprised at how well it goes down. Damn, this stuff really is worth the money.

Suddenly, Rose pulls off her scarf – a bright red, huge woolly thing with multicolored tassels. "Here," she pleads. "Take this, too."

He cocks his head. What the hell…?

"It's cold," she adds, as if that'd explain why a pretty young thing like her would want to give her designer scarf – he's no expert, but it looks like something by Esprit or S. Oliver or whatever brands kids today like – to a down-and-out tramp like him.

When he doesn’t move, she steps into his personal space and wraps it around him gently, with a touch almost like a-

He stops himself from finishing the thought. His hand goes up to his neck. He has every intention of pulling the damn thing off and throwing it in her face, telling her where to shove it – but something's holding him back. And it's not Jack's tense stance that makes him think he'd regret any roughness towards Rose, nor the little voice telling him that these two might be useful in the future.

It's Rose's eyes. Those big, impossibly warm eyes, which show no pity, no charity, but simple caring, and something that looks almost like friendship, almost like…

"Ta," he growls, then turns abruptly and walks off. If he's lucky, he might still be able to secure a sleeping spot between the skips. He doesn’t mind the stench, and the small space protects him from the wind and the worst of the cold. That and his new best friend in the brown paper bag might make for a pretty good night and some decent rest for once.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?

When he sees them again the next day, Rose hands him a Styrofoam mug of steaming hot soup. He holds it in his hands for a while, cupped close to his chest, just enjoying the warmth streaming out from the mug and seeping into his body before he even takes a sip of the soup. The weather is getting colder and colder each day. Seems like it'll be an unusually bad winter.

Rose is looking at him critically. She seems about to ask something, but Jack takes her hand and squeezes it, and she looks up at him. He gestures over her shoulder with his chin, and she looks around. Sees purple kid and goth kid, huddled closely together, a red scarf with colorful tassels wrapped around both of them.

Jack's far too observant for comfort. You have to be careful with the observant ones. An unguarded moment can tell them more about you than anyone in the world has any business knowing.

She turns back, beams at him, then looks at Jack. The two exchange a glance full of happiness, hope, relief – as if this is significant. As if it _means_ something, besides the fact that an old war veteran has no use for a girly scarf like that. He's lived through worse than a bit of cold. He doesn’t need it. Doesn’t deserve it, either – not after what he's done.

Not that he can remember what that was, most days – but that's a good thing. Whenever he catches himself thinking about it too hard, he finds a drink to down or a fight to pick. But whatever it was, it means he doesn’t need kid gloves – or woollen scarves, as the case may be. Those snot-nosed kids, annoying as they may be, have more of a claim to that than him. And Rose clearly didn't need it, anyway, seeing how she's already got a new one. Purple and pink, this time, with a reindeer pattern. He shudders, hoping like hell that she won't give him that one, too.

Jack smiles at him. "Chippy?" he asks. Just that, as if them going for food together is a long-standing arrangement that doesn't even need to be discussed anymore.

He looks up, frowns. "You buy me a bottle again?"

Jack grins. "Nah. You've still got one."

How the hell did the bloke know- oh, right, he's holding it in his hand. Not the good stuff they got him, of course – he finished that this morning. But he still has most of a bottle of cheap gut-rot he got at Charlie's this afternoon in exchange for a bunch of small change people had given him and a bag full of deposit bottles.

He frowns up at Jack. "Why should I go with you, then?" What he really wants to ask is "Why do you want me with you?" but that question leads places he's not prepared to go.

Jack laughs – not ridiculing, but as if he's just told a jolly good joke. "Well, there's the food. And I'll buy you a beer after if you insist."

"Two," he counters immediately.

Jack nods. Rose shifts uncomfortably, but smiles at him. "Same place, then?"

He shrugs. Not like he cares where they go.

"Great. Let me just finish passing these out," Rose says, gesturing to the cardboard tray of soup mugs she's still balancing with her left.

Minutes later, they're on their way to the chippy once more, walking next to each other like they're friends or something. Rose is chattering about her latest shopping trip to the Trafford Centre – the source of the scarf, presumably – and Jack sends him a conspiratorial wink, as if to say "Birds and their thing for clothes, eh?"

To his own surprise, he finds himself grinning back, and meaning it. When he catches himself, he scowls all the harder to make up for it.

*****

They keep on like this for a few days. Regular trips to the chippy, or the little Indian place by the market – though John suspects that at the latter place, Jack has to actually bribe the owner to let John eat there. Sometimes they buy him a bottle, sometimes he just gets beer or a spiked coffee. But they're always generous with the food – he actually thinks he's gaining some weight, which is probably just as well, though it makes it harder to get drunk. And they always keep the conversation to meaningless chatter, and don't seem to mind if he doesn’t participate. Overall, it's a pretty sweet deal.

One day, Jack turns up alone. Absurdly, John feels a pang of worry about Rose. Like it's his problem what happens to the broad. Not like he cares about her. He sure as hell isn't going to ask if she's all right.

"What – Rose found an even prettier boy already?" he growls instead. It's meant as an insult, of course. Not a covert way to ask about her.

Jack chuckles good-naturedly. "Hope not. She went to visit her mother for the weekend. In London."

He nods. Good old London. He really likes the city. He thinks. He's pretty sure he's been there before, at any rate.

"So…" Jack smiles, "There's nothing stopping us from going to the sports pub today. Watch the match."

"What's on?" he asks, and sees Jack's face fall into complete confusion for a second. Then he recovers and smiles sheepishly. "Honestly? I have no idea. But I reckon they're showing _something_. And they definitely have beer." He grins.

Almost against his will, John chuckles. "Right, then. Off we go."

*****

Rose doesn’t return until two nights later – bubbly, happy, and full of stories about her mum. It seems, and this is weird, that her mum lives on a council estate. Makes sense with Rose's accent, of course, but the way she and Jack have been throwing money around, he assumed she'd somehow risen to the kind of social strata where one can afford to buy one's mum a flat or semi-detached. Maybe not. Or maybe Rose's mum is just too proud to take money from her daughter. From the stories Rose is telling, she sounds like quite a character.

They've eaten together, visited the off-licence, and then Rose and Jack have walked him back to the alley – a habit they've adopted over the weeks, probably as a sign of acceptance or something. When they're about to say good night – he's started using his company manners with them at least some of the time, not because he cares but because he has the brains not to throw away a good thing when he sees it – he suddenly feels something wet and cold on his forehead. Looking up, he curses.

Snow. Thick, dense flakes, coming down fast. Already there's a thin sprinkling of white covering the street, the pavement, the skips. And from the way it's coming down, this will last for a while.

At least he has a full stomach and a bottle of Absolut tucked away in his jacket. He'll be all right.

Jack and Rose are looking at each other, clearly communicating without words. Both seem anxious. Worried about him? Probably. Would be just like them, damn bleeding hearts that they are.

Rose turns to him. "John… Would you like to…" She hesitates. Jack puts an arm around her and squeezes her shoulder gently, and she seems to gather her courage. Clearly, whatever it is she's about to say is important to both of them.

"Would you like to come with us and spend the night at our place?"

What the fuck? Has she gone insane? He looks back and forth between her inviting smile and Jack's encouraging grin.

Is this it, then? What all the food, the vodka, the light conversation was about? Have they been _grooming_ him? Trying to get him to trust them, so he'd come willingly?

And what do they want with him, once they have him on their turf? He's heard that well-off couples sometimes want a bit of rough – very rough – to spice things up in bed. But he always thought those were urban myths. And even if it's true, why'd they pick him? And put in so much work? They're both pretty enough, and the money they've spent on him could have bought them all kinds of companionship and adventure without any of the effort.

Or are they like that American couple he read about in the _Times_ once, back when he still cared enough to occasionally look over the newspapers he uses to stuff his jacket? A middle-class couple from Maine who took homeless people home with them, wined and dined them – and then murdered them, dumping the bodies in the woods. They'd been doing it for years before they were discovered – and only because the husband bragged about their "hobby" to his brother. They'd been clever in their choice of victims – people no one would ask about, no one would miss.

Like him.

He shakes his head, deliberately sitting down on his cardboard. "I'm fine here."

Rose kneels next to him. "Please, D- John. It's too cold."

The concern in her eyes seems genuine. But what did she almost call him?

"No strings attached, John," Jack adds, looking him straight in the eye. "You come, you stay in the spare room, we don't ask anything of you. You leave in the morning, or whenever you want. That's all."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine here," he repeats.

Jack begins to nod, grim but resigned, but Rose looks up at him with desperation on her face. "No. Please, no." She blinks quickly; John's not sure if it's because of the snowflakes falling into her eyes, or if she's actually fighting back tears.

Jack bites his lip and looks away, obviously deep in thought. His eyes linger on the other people in the alley. He seems to come to a decision.

"Tell you what, John – you come with us, and I'll buy every single person in this alley a hotel room for the night."

What the hell? Is he serious? John can see the purple kid and Milly looking over at the scene, their interest suddenly roused.

Jack looks back at him. "There's an Ibis a few streets over. I'll pay for rooms and breakfast. Warm beds. Showers. For every single person here. If you'll come with us."

They guy's offering to spend hundreds of quid, just to get him to their place? Now John knows something must be up. No one in their right mind would pay that much to be allowed to be charitable. Also, why not simply offer him a hotel room as well, unless they have something special planned for him?

"They won't rent to the likes of us."

"They will if I talk to them. Trust me." The too-bright smile. He doesn’t doubt Jack could pull it off. He's just still not sure what'd be in it for the bloke.

Though he suddenly finds he doesn’t care. The snow is falling faster and faster. The cold is painful. Weather like this could kill him – or worse, one of the others. Milly's old, the kids are – well, kids. The Spanish guy must be used to much warmer temperatures. Some of the others are sick and coughing.

Balanced against the chance of all of them getting a warm bed, a hot bath, and room service, does it really matter if he ends up dead in a skip somewhere? Not like he's doing anything important with his life. Or enjoying it. And maybe they're just after sex after all. In which case he'll disappoint, he's almost sure, but that's not his problem.

"You pay the hotel up front," he growls. "And room service. No going back on the deal later."

Jack nods. "I'll leave my credit card. Pick it up tomorrow after everyone's checked out, and pay the bill."

"Right." John nods. If this should turn out to be the last night of his life, at least it'll also have been the most useful one. Certainly more useful than anything he ever did in the war. He'd much rather die to give food and shelter to people than as part of an effort to kill and destroy.

If he even cared, that is.

He pushes his hands deep inside his pockets and follows silently as Rose and Jack start explaining things to the others and herding everyone towards the hotel.

*****

Their flat is nice, almost posh, but strangely sparse – as if they rented it furnished and never took the time to really make it theirs. It's probably exactly like dozens of other flats in this block. Except…

"Why the hell do you have a police box in your living room?"

Jack grins. "Novelty item. Got it at an auction. Gonna ship it home to the States. My folks'll love it."

John looks at him doubtfully, but shrugs. Jack's already shown himself to be more or less made of money. If he wants to spend it on souvenirs from the 50s, that's his prerogative.

The spare room has a double bed, which Rose makes up for him with fresh linens – pink and orange, but beggars can't be choosers.

Jack hands him a stack of towels and shows him where the bathroom is. "Feel free to shower or take a bath. You'll find everything you'll need in the cabinet. And take your time – the master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom, so this one's all yours." Somehow, he manages to make it sound like just a suggestion, an offer to a guest, rather than the much more forceful "For god's sake wash, you reek!" John would have offered him if the situation was reversed.

A long soak in the tub and half a bottle of vodka later, he feels much better than he has in… well, he can't remember feeling this good at all, actually. He almost doesn’t care if they murder him now, or try to drag him into their bed. But by the time he leaves the bathroom – dressed in his old dirty clothes again, because he refused to give them to Rose to "run through the wash" – Jack and Rose are curled up in front of the telly. They look at him, smiling.

"Anything you need?" Jack asks. "I could make you a sandwich or something."

"Nah. I'm good. I'll just…" He gestures towards the spare room, but doesn’t move. They're going to make their move now. Have to.

But they just nod and bid him good night.

"Call us if you need anything," Rose offers, and then leans closer against Jack.

He withdraws to the spare room and sits on the bed, waiting. Waiting for the door – which has no key, he notes – to open, for Jack to come in and tell him their demands.

He's almost through the rest of the vodka by the time he hears them switch off the telly. He takes a deep breath. Surely the other shoe must drop now. But all he hears is the creaking of the floorboards as they walk to the master bedroom, and then their door clicking shut.

With a frown, he lies back on the bed. For a moment, he's almost startled as his head sinks into the soft pillow. He doesn’t understand it, but this is the warmest and most comfortable place he's been in a long time. Might as well make the most of it – even if he'd feel safer curled up behind a skip. He'll find out what they want sooner or later. For now, he'll sleep.

*****

When he wakes up, the sun shining in through the window tells him that it's late morning, possibly close to noon. Damn, he shouldn't have slept that long. He fishes around for the bottle he hid under the bed last night and drinks the last swigs of vodka. Only way to start the day.

He gets up and carefully approaches the door. Listens. There's music coming from the direction he remembers the kitchen to be in. Maybe he can sneak out without them even noticing. He slowly cracks the door open and peers out. The hallway is empty.

He steps out and takes a step towards the outside door. Jack comes out of the living room, suddenly standing between him and the exit. John freezes, squaring his shoulders. If they try to keep him here against his will…

Jack looks him up and down quickly, taking in his stance. The bloke makes a visible effort to relax his muscles and takes a step back, no longer blocking the hallway. "You can leave, or you can stay for breakfast. Your call."

He ponders. He's hungry, and if he eats here he can make more vodka his first priority as soon as he leaves. And if they didn't attack him in his sleep, they're unlikely to do it now that he's conscious again.

"Breakfast," he says with a brief nod.

Jack grins. "Technically more like brunch now, but come on." He goes to the kitchen, not waiting to see if John's following.

Rose is at the counter stirring batter. Looks like she's going to make pancakes or waffles or something of the sort. Probably been infected by Jack's American breakfast habits.

He looks around the kitchen quickly. Like the rest of the flat, it's nice, but utilitarian, without any personal touches. Except…

There's a calendar up on the wall. One of those office things that show three months at once. April 30 is marked with a big red X, and all the days up until today – February 12, apparently, though he had no idea – are crossed out with black pen. Like they're counting down to something.

"Are you pregnant?" he burst out before he can stop himself. Not like he cares. It's just the surprise. Skinny thing like her… But then, some women don't show much until well into their third trimester.

Why does he even know that?

Rose whirls around, her face a mask of shock. "Wh… what? No!"

"Why'd you ask?" Jack's frowning at him.

"Just…" He points at the calendar.

They both follow his gaze, then exchange a glance. There's embarrassment and panic in Rose's eyes, and steady confidence mixed with sadness in Jack's.

"That's… for something else," the bloke says, opening the fridge. He starts pulling out milk and various juices. Rose has turned back to the counter, stirring the batter with a ridiculous amount of concentration. Clearly, the topic's closed.

Well, fine by him. Not like he cares about their personal life. Not gonna apologize for prying either, though. They keep that thing right out there in public view, people are going to wonder.

"Can I do anything?"

Rose turns back to him, confused shock on her face. Jack freezes and continues staring into the fridge.

"To help with breakfast," he clarifies. He's not sure if the look in Rose's eyes is regret or relief.

Jack turns from the fridge and starts placing bottles on the table. "Nah, we've got it covered. Just take a seat."

John does. Watching them prepare breakfast with the practiced motions of a longstanding team, he ponders, again, why a young couple as blessed by life as these two obviously are would show interest in a wreck like him. "'M gonna figure it out, you know?" He's not sure why he said that aloud.

They both turn to him. "Figure out what?" Rose asks, and damn, how can eyes look so caring and so pained at the same time?

"What you two want with me. Will work it out. Quite clever, me. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am."

Rose sobs, and Jack crosses the kitchen to fold her into his arms. John shuffles in his chair uncomfortably. "I am…" he repeats, hating how much less certain he suddenly sounds.

"We don't doubt it," Jack says, rubbing Rose's back. Strangely, he says it like he means it, not like he's placating a rude guest so he can focus on his girlfriend.

Suddenly, Rose steps out of his arms and turns to John. "Stay with us."

"What?" Fuck.

"Rose." There's a hint of warning in Jack's tone, but mostly sadness.

"Please. Just… stay with us? Just for a few… weeks." She's biting her lips and wringing her hands in the dishcloth.

Weeks? They want to share their life with a drunk, stinking, abrasive cast-out of society for weeks? They're even more insane than he is. And whatever they want with him, it's clear now that it's more than he bargained for. He only ever spoke to them to get food and alcohol. He's not looking for any kind of personal relationship. And they… they want to be a happy little family?

Whatever this is, he wants no part in it. He gets up, roughly shoves Rose aside, and, ignoring Jack's protest, storms out of the flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?

He doesn’t return to the alley. They'd know to find him there. Instead, he finds a place to sleep in a condemned warehouse near the railway tracks. The tone's rougher here – more fighting for sleeping places and begging spots, more than once another tramp tries to take his bottle from him. But he knows how to take care of himself.

Well, sort of. It's miserable, with the cold and the snow, and hardly anyone in the streets to ask for spare change. Doug, the guy who owns the off-licence in this area, is a right bastard, too – charges you more when he knows you're desperate. John spends more time than he cares to admit a shivering wreck. But most days, he still manages to somehow get some cheap booze, though he often has to forgo food for it. That's fine, though. The warmth and sleep from a bottle easily trump the hunger.

A week later, they find him. He has no idea how. But the look of happiness and relief washing over both their faces as they spot him sitting on a crate in the darkest corner of the warehouse pisses him off beyond all measure. He wants to yell at them, tell them to fuck off. But they've brought food again, and are already passing it out to everyone. If he tells them to get lost now, he'll turn all the others against him. And while he can take on Yorkshire Pete or Bludger easily enough, if the others turn against him as a group, he's done for.

So he ignores them. Stares at his hands as they stand in front of him. Ignores the bag of chips they offer him. Ignores Rose's tearful apology, and Jack's offer of a safe place whenever he needs it, no strings attached. Just pretends he doesn’t see them, doesn’t hear them. If he pretends hard enough that they don't exist, they'll go away.

Damn, now he sounds like a kid, if only in his head. And the smell of those chips… His stomach growls, and a quick glance up tells him it was loud enough for them to hear. He feels his face burning, which is at least a nice change from the cold.

Jack crouches down in front of him and places the bag in his lap. "You don't have to like us. But I think you know by now that you can trust us. We won't force you into anything. We just want to help. And yes, one day we'll tell you why. That's a promise."

He's digging his fingernails into his thighs to keep from ripping open the bag and stuffing himself with the chips. Hot, salty, greasy… they'd be so, so good. The smell is sheer torture on an empty stomach.

Rose crouches next to Jack and looks up at John, her face, framed by the fucking pink-and-purple reindeer scarf, pale and drawn. "What are you afraid of? What could we do that's so bad?"

"Not afraid," he snaps. "Just don't need you."

Jack sighs. "We won't force you. But if you ever want a warm place to sleep. Or food. Or, fuck it, vodka."

Rose turns to him, eyes wide. "Jack, we can't…" She puts a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Desperate times, Rose." He shrugs her off and turns back to John. "If you come and stay with us, we'll keep you warm, we'll keep you fed, and we'll keep you in vodka and beer. We won't demand anything in return. But as long as you stay out on the streets, we'll only give you food. No more alcohol."

Damn Jack and his self-righteous drivel. With a snarl, John spits in his face. Rose gasps, but Jack just calmly wipes the spittle off his cheek with the back of his hand and stands, pulling Rose with him. "The offer stands. Will always stand. No catch. We'll see you tomorrow with more food."

He wraps an arm around Rose's waist and leads her away slowly. She looks back over her shoulder at John a few times, but Jack pulls her onward steadily.

John waits till they've left the warehouse before he tears into the bag and devours the chips. He's too focused to notice the others approaching. When he looks up, they've surrounded him.

"What are you playing at, you bloody wanker?" the big bloke they call Yorkshire Pete asks him angrily.

"Yeah," a weasely little guy whose name John doesn’t know squeals. "Some do-gooders show up here with food, an' you _spit_ at 'em? Wanna ruin it for the rest of us?"

"Bollocks. I know them. They're-"

Beagle's hand is around his throat before he can finish the sentence.

*****

John groans as he comes to. Looks around. Dusk is starting to fall. He's no longer in the warehouse. He's… by the railway tracks. _On_ the railway tracks, actually. He hastily scrambles off. As he does, he realizes every inch of his body is hurting. There's dried blood on his hands, and the sharp pain in his chest when he takes a breath seems to indicate some cracked ribs. He also has a killer headache, and his throat hurts when he swallows. Fuck.

He can't go back to the warehouse. Normally not a problem – not like he has warm cozy feelings about the place – but in his condition, and with the severe weather, that leaves him with exactly two options.

He could go to a hospital. But he's pretty sure those are knife cuts on his face, and the last thing he needs right now are doctors asking him lots of questions and calling the cops. More importantly, he can already feel the first tremors of withdrawal running through his body. No way the docs would give him alcohol.

He slowly fights himself to his feet. Or foot – his left foot hurts so badly it can barely take any weight.

The other option... Well, damn. He spits, and grimaces as both blood and half a tooth fall into the snow.

Bollocks to this. He knows when he's beaten. And the two of them are so damn bloody nice they probably won't even say "I told you so."

*****

He hesitates outside their door. He can still turn back.

Except he can't. He barely made it here. His foot won't carry him any further, his head is killing him and goddammit, he _needs_ a drink.

He knocks.

The door opens in three seconds flat. Jack's standing there with a wary expression. When he spots John, it turns into a bright smile – which immediately crumbles into shock as he takes in his appearance. He looks him up and down, his face settling into quiet anger. "Fuck," he spits, even as he opens the door all the way and ushers him in.

Rose is standing in the doorway to the living room. She covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh god."

"I…" John starts looking for an explanation. Can't exactly tell them he was beaten up because of his attitude towards them, can he? "It was…"

Jack shakes his head. "You don't really want to tell us, and we don't want a lie. Let's just get you fixed up."

As he thought. Observant.

Jack gestures towards the bathroom. "There. Best lighting."

John frowns but obeys. He really wants to lie down, but he's in no position to argue. He limps into the bathroom and sits on the toilet lid.

"Rose, take care of him while I…. grab some stuff." A meaningful glance passes between them. No, he's not the only one with secrets here.

Jack leaves the bathroom, turning towards the living room, and Rose stands in the doorway, looking uncertain. "Can I get you anything?"

"Vodka," he rasps.

She shakes her head. "Later. Maybe."

"Jack promised-"

"You have head injuries!" She frowns and pushes out her jaw determinedly, glaring. The expression makes her look older, and slightly scary. He decides it might be best not to argue for now.

"Oh!" Rose opens the bathroom cabinet and pulls out a stack of clothes. "I got you these."

He looks at the bundle, speechless. Black jeans. Okay, easy enough, that's what he's wearing. Except his are torn and dirty. Two jumpers, maroon and dark green. Two colors he's always liked. How did she know? The one he's wearing now is gray, and so dirty it might as well be brown. A ten-pack of black socks, and… briefs. Black briefs. Black _silk_ briefs. He frowns. How did she know he prefers briefs to boxers, and why did she pick silk? It's been ages since he had this kind of luxurious underw- Wait, _has_ he worn stuff like that before? And when? Hardly Navy issue, those. He shakes his head in confusion, then hisses with the pain.

Rose smiles at him shyly. "There are some boots, too. They're in the hall cupboard." She puts the stack down on the rim of the bathtub. "Just put your stuff in the basket and I'll wash it for you. And we can wipe down your jacket, maybe use some shoe polish on it… She's almost babbling. Where does this desperate need to take care of him come from?

Jack returns, carrying a small nylon bag. Where has the bloke been this long? The living room's not that big. He squeezes Rose's shoulder gently. "Need to see to his wounds first, Rose."

"Right." She hesitates. "Leave you to it. I'll make some supper." She leaves, closing the door behind her.

Jack smiles at him, but his gaze is detached and focused. "Gonna have to ask you to strip." His tone is matter-of-fact. "Nothing personal, but you're hurt all over."

"Not like you can do much about the cuts and bruises," John protests.

Jack shrugs. "You'll be surprised." He looks him straight in the eyes. "I have actual medical training. Learned some in the… military, and then a friend taught me more. If you let me, I can have you feeling much better in an hour. Good enough that I'll feel safe giving you alcohol."

He curses quietly under his breath as he shrugs off his jacket. Curses himself and the vodka. When did he stop making his own decisions? He's like a dog who'll do anything for a treat.

His jumper and jeans are so torn that he just lets Jack cut them off him. Good thing Rose bought him new clothes. He should thank – fuck, no. Her problem how she spends her money.

When he's down to his underwear, he hesitates briefly. Until he realizes standing in _those_ old and dirty rags is actually more humiliating than being naked. He pulls them off and throws them into the bin, not looking at Jack.

Jack has soaked several wash cloths in warm, soapy water. He waits until John's sitting down again, then he starts by carefully cleaning his face, chest, and back. His movements are sure and gentle, but John still winces with pain a few times.

When he's finished cleaning the upper half of John's body, Jack looks at him seriously. "How much do you trust me?"

"Not at all," he spits, though part of him is calling himself a liar before the words are even all the way out.

Jack grins. "If I took a strange device from that bag and started waving it at you…?"

John shrugs. "No doctor, me."

Why did Jack flinch at that?

John continues, "Haven't been to a doctor in… a long time. Wouldn't know what you doctory types use these days."

Jack's voice is strangely rough as he undoes the zip on his bag. "'I'm no doctor. Just learned from one." He pulls out something that looks like a mixture between a game boy and a remote control. It bleeps a few times as he waves it up and down over John's body. Jack frowns. "You have four cracked ribs, a hairline fracture of the skull, a slight concussion, assorted bruises and abrasions, cuts on your face, a missing tooth, broken bones in your left foot, malnutrition, and the early stages of liver damage."

John shrugs. None of this is a surprise. Though how that little toy found it all without Jack even touching him is more of a puzzle.

Now Jack pulls out something that looks like some kind of futuristic hairdryer. "Let's start with your ribs and skull."

John scoffs. "Think you can heal broken bones?"

John simply pushes a button, and the "hairdryer" begins to glow with an eerie green light. "Try to hold still. This tickles a little." He moves it up and down an inch from John's ribcage.

John grabs the toilet seat hard and bites the inside of his cheek. This tickles like hell, but he's not going to giggle like a bloody schoolgirl and wriggle prettily for Jack. He can't quite suppress a squirm as Jack does another sweep closer to the skin, though.

Jack switches the device off and smiles at him. "Sorry. I know it's a bitch. But feel your ribs now."

John slowly lifts his arms, takes a deep breath. No pain. He carefully puts pressure on his ribcage. Still nothing. He grunts, shaking his head. "How the fuck did you do that?"

Jack points at the device. "Bone regenerator. I'll do your skull next."

John turns his head, willingly offering the wound to Jack. He has no idea how the bloke worked this magic – has modern medicine really advanced so much since the last time he had anything to do with it? It hardly seems possible. This is more like something from a science fiction flick. Is it some type of prototype only eccentric millionaires have access to? He doesn’t see that it matters much, though, long as Jack can fix him.

A buzzing sound tells him that Jack has turned the device back on. The tickling's not so bad on the back of his skull, except down near his neck. And it only takes a few seconds until Jack is satisfied with the results.

As John turns back, he sees Jack pulling yet another strange gizmo from his bag. "Tissue regenerator," he explains. "Don't worry, this one just feels warm."

John glances at what looks like an oversized laser pointer and shrugs. Long as it works, he doesn’t care. Jack carefully takes John's chin in his hand and tips his head back. "Close your eyes."

John does. Funny. It's almost like he trusts the lad.

As promised, all he feels is warmth moving along his jaw line, over his cheeks and forehead, the back of his head, and finally down his torso. He opens his eyes as Jack releases his chin and watches the red glow move from cut to cut and bruise to bruise – leaving unmarked skin in its wake. "Bloody hell," he whispers.

"I'll explain later. Well… much later. Actually, you won't need me to explain then…" Jack's voice trails off and he abruptly turns to the sink, soaping up another washcloth. "Stand up. Let's do the rest of you."

John complies, holding on to the wall for balance. Jack gently starts washing his legs, starting at the feet and working his way up. "Need to clean you up before I can use the regenerator. Wouldn't want it to heal dirt right into your tissue."

Jack's movements are completely clinical, but, to his horror, John notices his body react as the warm, soapy cloth slides up his thighs, behind them, and up to his buttocks. It's not a full erection, but his cock is getting heavy and beginning to stiffen. It makes no sense. Why is he reacting this strongly?

He stares at the wall over Jack's head, not wanting to see the smirk he's sure is on the bloke's face. Or worse, the disgust. But he looks down, startled, when Jack starts washing his genitals, and realizes that Jack's expression is still completely matter of fact, caring but detached. If anything, he looks slightly forlorn. John takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he doesn’t care what the guy thinks of him.

"Right," Jack says when he's done. "Going to start with the bone regenerator again. You might want to sit back down for this. Wouldn't want you to lose your balance from all the giggling." Now there's an impish twinkle in his eyes.

John grunts and sits down. "I'm not the girly one here." Not that Jack is exactly girly, either. But he's the one that started with the digs. John doesn’t giggle. He'll show the bloke.

As the hairdryer-shaped gizmo approaches his foot, he sucks in a sharp breath and hopes like hell it'll be over quickly. And when Jack grins up at him, his finger on the switch, about to turn it on but dragging out the suspense for a few seconds, he can't help grinning back. He's not sure if it's the lad's irrepressible if annoying charm, or his own stubbornness that's always made him enjoy a challenge, but right now, he feels a strange connection with Jack – teasing, challenge, banter… it's almost like they're friends.

It's the ridiculousness of that thought that makes him laugh out loud a second later. The device slowly circling the sole of his foot has nothing to do with it.

Jack's grinning up at him, looking decidedly smug. As soon as he switches the infernal machine off, John scowls at him. "Think this is funny?"

Jack shrugs, smiling. "Sorry. It's just… That friend who taught me how to use these – he always had entirely too much fun doing this to me. Always got in a few extra sweeps just to see me squirm." He picks up the laser-pointer-thingy and starts healing the cuts and bruises on John's legs.

"You break a lot of bones, then?" John asks warily.

Jack grins. "Part of the job."

John feels his eyes narrow in suspicion. "And what job is that?"

Jack's face falls. "It's… complicated."

John scoffs. "Yeah. Lot of things around here are." But somehow, he's not too worried. Damn, is he actually starting to trust this guy?

Jack switches of the gadget and puts it away. "Right. That's all I can do for you."

"What about the concussion? An' my liver?"

Jack grimaces. "Sorry. Nothing I can do. My friend might, but… he's not here." There's a surprising amount of pain in his eyes at the statement. John wonders if Jack's friend is dead, or if they parted on bad terms. "You'll just have to rest for the concussion to heal. As for your liver…" He shrugs. "You know what I'd have to tell you, and we both know you're not going to do it."

Damn right he isn't. Though, now that he has a place to sleep, enough food, and isn't freezing all the time, maybe he could cut back a little. Just for a few days, till he's properly rested. He almost says so, but then decides it's none of Jack's businesses how much he drinks. If he announces his intention to drink less, the bloke might feel entitled to remind him of that later. And he's worryingly uncertain if he can.

Can't right now, at any rate. It's been way too long since his last drink. "Get me a bottle, then," he barks at Jack.

Jack looks away, but nods. "Get dressed. We'll be in the kitchen. I really recommend you at least wait till after supper, but it's up to you."

*****

Supper's soup and a salad – plain, but filling. Rose even put some desert on the table – mousses and jellies in individual containers. He feels a bit silly taking one, but actually the stuff tastes quite nice.

Jack looks at the little yellow containers with a frown. "Are they all banana?"

Rose hands him one. "Nah, got you a vanilla one."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Vanilla, huh? Yeah, that suits me much better."

Rose blushes, and seeing Jack's unrepentant grin, John can't help himself – he starts laughing. Jack laughs with him, and after a second, Rose joins in. But her smile turns into a frown as he reaches for his vodka bottle. He's waited till after supper as Jack requested, but he needs a bit of booze now. John watches her carefully as he unscrews the top. Rose shifts in her chair uncomfortably. Jack puts a hand on her elbow and squeezes gently. She looks at him, shakes her head, and gets up, starting to fill the dishwasher.

John shrugs, and takes a large swig. They said no strings attached. They better mean it.

Jack is watching him calmly. John throws him a challenging glance.

"So, wanna watch telly with us?" is all the bloke says.

"What's on?"

Jack shrugs. "One of those 'Who's Got the Least Talent?' casting shows. Boring as hell, but cute girls and hot guys."

Hot guys? Does Jack play for both teams? John shakes his head. "Not really my kind of show, that."

"Yeah, me neither. Want to pop round to the pub then?"

John considers. Why not? It's too early to go to bed, and he doesn’t have to worry about procuring spare change or finding a place to sleep tonight. He actually has time to kill. He throws a quick glance at Rose, who smiles.

"Go ahead, I don't mind. Then at least I can watch my program without this one complaining about the singers being a quarter of a note off key or such." She cuffs Jack's shoulder.

Jack grins. "Can't help it if I've got perfect pitch, can I?" He stands up and looks at John. "Coming?"

John nods.

As they put on their coats, Jack suddenly runs back to the kitchen and starts rummaging through a drawer. "Oh, I almost forgot. Catch."

He tosses a silver-and-blue object at John. John's proud he still has good enough reflexes to catch it. He looks down. It's a keyring in the shape of a globe, with two silver keys dangling from it.

"Smaller one's for the flat, the bigger one unlocks the door downstairs," Jack explains, as if handing the keys to your home to a homeless and moneyless waste of space is the most natural thing in the world. But there's something shining in his eyes. This matters to him. It's significant. John looks at Rose, and sees the same quiet awe reflected on her face. And both of them have a hand resting on one of their pockets in a protective gesture.

He grunts and pockets the keyring. "Thanks, I suppose. Now I've got what I need to bring over my mates and rob this place."

Neither one as much as blinks. "You won't," Rose says with perfect conviction.

Jack smiles. "I know a crook when I see one. Believe me." He pats John's shoulder as he walks past him to the door.

"What, you think I'm an honest man?" John almost snarls. Has the bloke not been paying attention?

Jack turns to him, eyes suddenly perfectly serious and sincere. "I think you can be."

He strides out of the flat and towards the staircase without another word, and, after a second, John follows, carefully locking the door behind himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?

The next few days are… well, "surreal" is the only word he can think of that even begins to describe it. Here he is, living the domestic life with Rose and Jack – eating regular meals, watching the telly, hell, once or twice he even goes to the supermarket with Rose to help her carry the shopping.

He's surprised at the confidence with which they leave money and valuables lying around. He's even more surprised at himself for not taking any.

He still drinks, of course, but not nearly as much as he used to – which was never as much as he wanted to back then. A few swigs here and there – enough to worry Rose, he can tell, but not enough to fall into a drunken stupor. Well, not unless he means to, that is. He has trouble sleeping, so he usually downs a few big ones in his room right before going to bed. Helps him sleep like a baby, that does. Course, it means he needs some hair of the dog to get up in the morning, but overall, his alcohol levels are lower than they've been in years – any time he had a choice, at any rate.

One night, he's woken by the sound of crying and whimpering, punctuated by long moans. His first instinct is to pull a pillow over his head and give Jack and Rose their privacy, but then he realizes that's not it. He's not sure how he knows, but those aren't the sounds they make in the throes of passion. It sounds like… Jack's having a nightmare.

He waits for a while, staring at the ceiling. None of his business, that. But the moans are getting louder, and Rose's urgent whispers sound more and more desperate. With a sigh, he gets up.

He briefly considers pulling on his jeans, but the pyjamas Rose bought him really are perfectly adequate cover. He leaves his room and knocks on their bedroom door.

Rose opens after a few seconds. "John? Do you need anything?"

"Was gonna ask you the same thing." He gestures towards the bed with his chin. All he can see through the half-open door is part of a blanket moving up and down, rustling, shifting and slipping across the mattress in an uneven pattern. "He okay?"

Rose shakes her head. "Not really. He's having a nightmare, and I can't get him to wake up."

"Want me to try?" If there's one thing that'll wake a soldier up and quick, it's someone unfamiliar touching him in his sleep.

Rose hesitates for a moment, then she nods. "Please. He gets these sometimes. I'm not that good at handling them. Th… someone else usually did that. But…" Her voice trails off.

Someone else? In their bedroom, at night? Seems weird, that. But what does he care? John approaches the bed. Jack is lying on his back, tangled up in the covers, apparently trying to push something heavy off his chest. Or someone.

John stops by the bedside. "Hey, Jack, wake up." There's no reaction. If anything, the struggling intensifies.

John is well aware that his next move means risking a broken nose – but with all the gadgets Jack has, that wouldn't be much of a problem, would it? He sits on the edge of the bed and roughly shakes Jack's shoulder. "Oi, wake up! You're scaring Rose!"

As suddenly as a cork popping from a bottle, Jack sits bolt upright. He's staring right through John, not really awake yet. Suddenly, his gaze focuses on John and he breathes in sharply. "Doctor!"

Before John can react, Jack has launched himself at him and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. Even more disconcertingly, the bloke's burrowing his face into John's shoulder and weeping in big, helpless sobs. "I thought..."

John is holding himself completely stiff. What the _hell_ is going on? What did Jack dream, and how come he's mistaken him for, at a guess, that lost friend he and Rose are always on about? Does he resemble the guy? Is that why those two are so obsessed with helping him?

John glances at Rose. She's standing by the doorway, covering her mouth with one hand, crying quietly. No help there.

Slowly, he raises his arms and returns Jack's hug. Just to calm the lad down, of course, so he can get him off himself. He rubs a hand firmly up and down between the bloke's shoulder blades. It feels strangely natural. "Hey there. 'S all right. You're okay. Rose is okay. Everything's fine." Not exactly the St. Crispin's Day speech, but it seems to be calming Jack down.

Rose comes to sit on the other side of the bed, carefully putting a hand on Jack's neck. "Jack. It's okay now. I think you're crowding _John_."

At the sound of John's name, Jack stiffens. He pulls back, looking first at John, then at Rose. He shakes his head and curses quietly, then lets himself drop backwards on the pillow, groping for Rose's hand. He looks up at John. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," he says, but John can tell that there's much more he wants to say.

"'S okay," he says with a shrug, and gets up to go to his room. "Leave you to it. Night."

As he closes the door, he hears Jack quietly say, "Oh Rose. We're screwing up so badly."

Screwing up what? Is this a chance to finally find out what they're up to? He closes the door, but leans against it, listening.

"I know," Rose says, and there are tears evident in her voice. "But I don't know what else we can do."

"Me neither," Jack replies. "I didn't think… I imagined it differently."

"Yeah. 'S not how he said it'd be at all. But it's not much longer now." After a few moments, she adds, "If the other bit works, that is."

He hears the mattress shift – probably Jack pulling Rose closer to himself. "It will. It has to."

There's no more talking, and after a few minutes he hears them both breathing deeply and regularly. John slowly makes his way back to his room.

He lies awake for hours trying to figure out what they were talking about, or if there's a way to ask. But finally he downs some more vodka and goes to sleep, cursing himself for even caring.

*****

He's not sure why he stays with them.

Well, no, that's a lie. A comfortable room, regular meals, a generous allotment of high-quality booze, and a minimum of preaching and disapproving looks – the latter mostly from Rose, and usually quickly quenched by Jack. Why wouldn't he stay?

Though, there's something else. He's not sure why – in fact, it makes absolutely no sense when he tries to think about it rationally – but this feels right. Living together with Rose and Jack seems… familiar. Like he's supposed to be with them.

Bollocks. Maybe he's getting maudlin in his old age.

He never asks them about their lost friend. Never tells them he's figured out they only want him around because he reminds them of the guy. And it's not just because of his dislike of personal talk. It's because, deep down, he doesn’t want to upset the balance. He doesn’t want to… hurt them. Hell, when did he start caring about other people's feelings again?

The more he finds himself drawn to them, the more he needs to distance himself. He starts taking long walks around the city. Sometimes stays out for hours. Frequently sets out telling himself that if he wants to, he can just keep walking. That he doesn’t have to come back.

But in the end, he always does.

And after a while, he realizes he doesn’t think of it as "going back to Jack and Rose's place" anymore. He thinks of it as "going home."

Home. What a strange concept. Not one he'd thought would ever apply to him again. And yet, the notion now feels so natural, so familiar.

Until the day he comes home from one of his walks and sees packed bags by the living room door. Jack and Rose are sitting on the sofa, looking serious.

He strides right past the door and goes straight to the kitchen to grab his bottle off the shelf. Feels the warmth run down his throat even as his blood runs cold.

Jack calls his name, asks him to join them in the living room. They need to talk.

This is it, then. They're throwing him out. Or maybe they're leaving. There were too many bags for them to just contain his few possessions. Even with all the clothes shopping Rose has done for him, his things couldn't fill more than a small duffel bag.

Now Rose is calling his name. Her voice sounds faintly desperate. Tense. As if she's waiting for something terribly important she's not sure will occur.

He takes a deep breath and turns to the kitchen door. In doing so, he catches a glimpse of the calendar. Today's April 30. They day marked with a big red X. The day they've been counting down to. How did he not notice this before?

Because he didn't want to, that's why. Because he didn't want anything to change.

He walks to the living room like to the gallows. He's telling himself he doesn’t care, but it's a lie. It's been a lie for a while now. He wonders when that happened.

He sits in the armchair across from them. Takes a deep breath. Looks from Rose's fretful face to Jack's tense one.

He leans back. Let them make an opening gambit. He's screwed, but hell if he's going to make this any easier on them.

Jack looks at him searchingly. "You have a fob watch, right? A silver one? Do you have it on you?"

John expected justifications. Apologies. Maybe something starting with "This is really nobody's fault, but…" What he didn't expect was to be quizzed about the contents of his pockets. And how did the bloke even know about the watch, anyway? Not too long ago, John would have bristled at the thought that Jack might have gone through his things. Now he just shrugs, and pulls it from his pocket. "Yeah. 'S old, though. Doesn’t work."

Jack shakes his head. "It works just fine. Open it."

"Wait!" Rose says. "Not just like this! We have to explain…"

"Rose," Jack says, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea…"

"We promised!" Rose insists. She turns to John. "We promised you that one day we'd explain why we've been doing all of this." She indicates John, the flat, and herself and Jack with a gesture.

John scoffs. "Figured it out long ago. Told you I would."

They exchange a startled glance. "You have?" Rose asks quietly; there's more doubt than shock in her voice.

He grunts an affirmative. "That lost friend you two are always on about. Doctor something-or-other. I remind you of him."

Jack nods. "That's… not entirely off the mark."

"What is it, do I look like the bloke? Talk like him? Bloody don’t act like some university graduate, me." He keeps his voice cold and cutting like a knife blade. Anyone trying to get close to him will get hurt.

Tears are rolling down Rose's cheeks. John tries to sneer at her weakness, but finds he can't quite bring himself to. Fakes a laugh, instead. "What? Didn't think I'd get it, eh?"

"You don't!" Rose protests. "Not… not really."

Jack bends forward, extending a placating hand towards John. "Right. There's no easy way to say this. You're not _like_ him. You _are_ him. You're the Doctor."

"Doctor who?" John's beginning to think he's not the only one in this room who drinks too much.

Jack shrugs. "Just 'the Doctor.' Until a few months ago, you, Rose and me, we… traveled together."

He laughs in Jack's face. "Hardly. Haven't left the country since the war, me."

Jack gaze turns sharp. "What war was that?"

He hesitates. He knows this. Of course he knows. It was… he was sent to…

Jack presses on. "What unit were you in? Who was your commanding officer? What was your rank?"

Damn. He should know this. He should know all of this, no matter how much vodka he's pickled his brain in.

He takes a deep breath. "Look. I'm not sure what you're driving at here. But I think I'd know if-"

"You're the Doctor. You're a Time Lord." The way Jack pronounces the last two words makes them sound like something sacred.

"A what?"

"An alien." Jack holds up a hand to forestall his protests. "A few months ago, we ran into some enemies of yours. You said you had to go into hiding, that they'd give up if the trail went cold – and that the only way to do it was to become human."

John blinks. And then he gets it. Oh fuck. He leans forward in his chair, hesitantly looks from Jack to Rose. "Listen. You two have been really good to me. But... but I think…" He sighs. "You're really, really sick. We ought to get you some help. Maybe when your friend died, the grief-"

"He didn't die!" Rose sobs. "He became you! You're the Doctor, a nine-hundred-year-old Time Lord! You used a machine called the Chameleon Arch to make yourself human and create an identity for you to hide behind."

John shakes his head. "Rose, think. If I was such an all-powerful alien, why would my miracle machine turn me into… this?" He gestures to himself with his bottle.

Rose and Jack exchange a glance. "We don't know," Jack says. "Sure as hell isn't what we expected. We're thinking maybe something went wrong with the transformation, or maybe-"

"There was no transformation! I was always this! There's no chameleon machine! There're no aliens!" He's torn between storming out and dialing 999 to have Rose and Jack sectioned.

Rose gets up and walks behind John, to that damn police box Jack still hasn't got around to sending to his parents in Indiana. She pulls a small key from her pocket and unlocks it, then looks at John over her shoulder. "No aliens, eh? Then explain this." She opens the door.

Bloody hell. _Bloody hell._ He feels the bottle slip from his grasp and spill on the carpet. And unbelievably, he doesn’t care. He gets up, and slowly walks towards the little blue box. The little blue box that doesn’t seem so little anymore.

He stands in the door and stares, open-mouthed. There's a huge room inside. Huge. Like… a cathedral or something. And it seems… grown, almost. Organic, not constructed. There's a warm orange glow filling the room, and a green pillar of light in the middle, surrounded by strange machinery.

It takes him a minute to find his voice, and even then the best he can come up with is "Fuck." After another few seconds, he hesitantly steps across the threshold and looks around. Rose and Jack follow him. Rose stands by what looks like a coral strut, caressing it gently. Jack just leans against the door, watching John. There's a suspicious glimmer in his eyes.

John takes a deep breath. The air in here smells strange – old, but at the same time fresh and sweet. And this noise… a hum that seems to sing to him, only to him, seems to surround him, welcome him.

Because he still doesn’t know what to say, he goes for the obvious. "It's… bigger on the inside."

Jack laughs, loud and with an edge of hysteria. "For the record - I'll never let you forget that you said that." He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Rose is smiling wistfully. "You'll get it later," she says in reply to John's questioning look.

John retreats to the familiarity of the living room. Though as soon as he steps over the threshold, he feels a keen sense of loss, and for a moment, he's not sure if it comes from him or the police box.

What a ridiculous notion. And yet…

He carefully steps around the puddle of vodka on the floor, and sits heavily in the chair. "So… I'm an alien?"

"Well, not right now," Jack replies. "As we said, the Chameleon Arch turned you human. It put your real identity into that fob watch. And don't ask me how that works, 'cause I don't know."

He doesn’t look at them, stares at the watch instead. This whole thing is preposterous. Things like this don't happen, except on the telly and in penny dreadfuls. People don't turn into other people with the help of fancy alien gadgets, miracle police boxes notwithstanding.

Though… it'd explain a lot. His memories – anything that's further than a few weeks back is fuzzy and indistinct. If he's honest, he's always known that the vodka alone doesn’t explain that. And conversely, there are all the things he shouldn't know, but does – details about history, literature, even maths. He's just told them he's not an educated man, but sometimes, facts and figures he really has no business knowing pop into his mind. He noticed it every time he watched _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?_ with them. And they never even raised an eyebrow when he blurted out a chemical formula before the four choices were even on the screen. As fantastic as their story sounds, it'd account for a lot.

Also, it would explain this feeling he's always had – the feeling of knowing Rose and Jack better than he should. The feeling of connectedness, familiarity. Being able to read them, being a tad too quick to trust them, even his body's reaction to their closeness.

As absurd as it sounds, their story is actually more logical than any other explanation he can think of.

He's still looking at the fob watch, turning it over and over in his hand. It feels warm to the touch, and like it's calling to him. A soft, caressing hum, almost like the one inside the police box. His index finger glides over the button.

"It'll turn you back," Rose says. "Once you open it, all your memories, your other senses, your body, will go back to normal. You'll be the Doctor again."

John looks up sharply. "You mean I'll be dead."

Rose's jaw goes slack, her forehead creased in a frown. But there's understanding in Jack's eyes, so John turns to him. "Won't I?"

Jack nods. Just once, a brief, reluctant dip of the chin. At least he has the guts to admit it.

John snorts. Figures. Figures that now, now that he's finally, tentatively started to almost enjoy life again, or at least not hate every single bloody minute of it, the two people who made that possible are asking him to end it.

"But… no. You won't die!" Rose says, and John's not sure if she's trying to convince him or herself.

"My body will change. I'll become a different person. And my memories, if I keep them at all, will become a subset of a much vaster store of more important memories. How's that not dying?" he asks Rose.

She looks back at him, looks at Jack, and then at her hands. "Oh god." Her voice is raw with horrified pain. "I hadn't thought about it like that."

John feels his heart clench, seeing her so wretched. Damn it, he really does care about her. Cares about that forlorn look in Jack's eyes, too. And it's not like he was ever that attached to his life. He shrugs.

"Ah well, it doesn’t matter."

They both stare at him.

He smiles grimly. "Should've known it was too much to hope that you really cared about me."

"Of course we care about you!" Rose stands up and takes a step towards him, but he jumps up to evade her, backs up almost all the way to the police box door. He hears that humming again, stroking his mind, calling him.

"No, Rose, you don't. You care about him. That alien. The Doctor. Only reason you took care of me is so you could get him back. An' now you want me to die for him."

Jack's eyes are dark and unreadable, but his posture tells John all he needs to know. The lad has thought about this before, probably all along. He knows that what they're doing to John is wrong – but that doesn’t matter as much as getting his friend back does.

Rose, in contrast, is floored. She hadn't thought about it, and clearly Jack didn't share. Rose would never ask him to give up his life, now that she's seen that that's what opening the fob watch would mean. But she can't stand the thought of not getting the Doctor back, either.

"It's not just us," Jack starts. "The universe-"

"You're not doing this for the universe. You're doing this because you want him back." He glares at Jack, daring him to deny it.

Jack lowers his head and hunches his shoulders. "Sorry." As he looks up again, his eyes show real guilt, real regret. Jack'll miss him.

It suddenly strikes John what an extraordinary achievement that is. Despite everything, despite the wreck he was, despite the way he's treated them both, Jack will miss him. And, from the look of her, so will Rose.

Well, that's more than John Smith would ever have expected to accomplish in his life, had anyone asked him just a few weeks back. Two good people who will genuinely miss him once he's gone. Not too shabby, that.

John smiles at Jack and Rose. A true smile. The kind he'd long since have forgotten how to use if it weren't for the two of them. "Never mind. Not like I matter. To anyone. Not even me. It's all right."

Rose is shaking her head, silent tears running down her cheeks. Jack is looking at him, unwavering. He's standing erect, not evading his gaze.

John pushes the button. The watch snaps open. Tendrils of golden light seep out of it, wrap around him. "So I die today. I'm fine with that."

The last thing he sees are their faces – guilty, heartbroken, but also hopeful. Then the light engulfs him and grows hot. It seeps into every cell of his body and burns it from the inside out.

John Smith screams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor has to use the Chameleon Arch while traveling with Rose and Jack. What will happen, and how will it affect their relationship?

The Doctor screams.

Rose has to fight the impulse to press her hands over her ears and turn away. She forces herself to watch. This is their fault, and she won't allow herself to look away.

The golden light grows brighter and brighter. Rose has to slit her eyes to be able to keep looking. She watches at it consumes the man she's come to care for, and hopes it will give her back her lover.

 _Please, please let him be all right,_ she feverishly repeats to herself over and over. She and Jack have been so worried that John's living conditions, his wounds, and most of all his drinking, might have permanently damaged the Doctor's body.

The Doctor falls to his knees. His cries increase in intensity, become a desperate wail. There's a smell of charred flesh. Rose sobs. If anything goes wrong with this, it's their fault. They were supposed to take care of the Doctor while he was human. Keep him safe. That was the one thing he'd asked of them – "Won't know who I am, me. Might get into all sorts of trouble if no one keeps an eye on me. See that you do." She can still hear the words ringing in her head, piercing her heart.

"Don't worry," she'd said. "We will." Then they'd kissed him good-bye, and he'd put on the helmet – and then everything had gone wrong. She doesn’t know what she and Jack could have done differently, but she knows that if it had been her, the Doctor would have found a way to protect her from herself.

The flames have turned to a dark, angry red. Rose can feel their heat on her face, but she doesn’t draw back.

They tried, they really did. Spent long nights discussing how to keep the Doctor's body safe, how to keep John from harm – but in the end, there was so little they could do. Yes, they got him off the streets, but only after he'd been beaten up. And they never could get him off the vodka, were too scared that suggesting it would make him bolt again.

Who knows what they've done to the Doctor. Who knows if he'll ever forgive them for failing him so badly.

The cry stops, abruptly replaced by an eerie silence. The light starts to fade, to darken, until small black flames are dancing over the Doctor's skin, seeping into his body.

The Doctor looks up. Stares at her, his eyes still burning with black flames. Then his gaze turns to Jack, who has been watching the transformation standing upright with squared shoulders.

Rose gulps. She tries to come up with something, anything to say. She can't open with "Are you all right?" Not after everything. And "I'm sorry" doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Abruptly, the Doctor gets up, turns, and strides into the TARDIS.

Her heart leaps into her throat. Oh god. He's leaving. He's leaving them. He's too angry to even talk to them.

Jack takes a step towards the TARDIS. "Doctor," he whispers.

The Time Lord stops in the doorway. He's standing stock-still, not looking back at them. For a moment, none of them say a word. Then the Doctor, still not looking back, quietly asks "Coming?" and strides further into the console room without waiting for an answer. She jumps up and hurries after him. From the corner of her eye, she sees Jack grabbing their bags.

The Doctor is pushing buttons and turning dials on a part of the console Rose knows to be connected to the scanners. He must be checking to make sure their pursuers are no longer lying in wait. Her suspicion is confirmed when the Doctor quietly says "It worked. They're gone." His eyes are glued to the screen.

As soon as Jack closes the doors behind him, the Doctor starts taking them into the Vortex. He doesn’t wait for Jack to join him at the console, just starts pushing buttons and pulling levers in abrupt, jerking motions. Rose exchanges a frantic look with Jack, still not sure what to say.

"So…" The Doctor's not looking at them. He's fiddling with the controls, even though Rose is sure that at this stage, he doesn’t need to. This is the point where he usually steps away from the console, throws his arms around them and laughs with them about their last crazy adventure.

Not that she expected that this time. But couldn't he at least look at them?

"So," he repeats, slightly louder this time. "Am I taking you back to London?" His voice is devoid of any emotion.

No. God, no. He's throwing them out. She should probably be glad that at least he'll take her home, but…

"Doctor." Jack steps forward. "Please don't be angry at Rose. It was my fault. I screwed it up."

The Doctor turns to look at them, his expression unreadable. But Rose cuts in before he can say anything. "No! Jack, that's not true! It was my fault, too."

The Doctor's looking back and forth between them, frowning. "What are you two on about?"

Rose feels tears burning in her eyes. "We didn't mean to let you down."

"We screwed up, Doc. And I'm sorry. You told us to keep an eye on your human self, keep you out of trouble, and…" He shrugs helplessly.

The Doctor laughs, but it's a dark, mirthless rasp that reminds her more of John Smith than the Time Lord. "Didn't exactly give you much to work with, did I?"

Rose swallows against the tears. "Still. We should have managed better. Not plied you with more 'n more alcohol-"

"Which was my fault," Jack interrupts. "Rose was against it all along."

"Not like I had a better idea, though." She twists her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. "Just let you get on with it in the end. Probably ruined your liver."

The Doctor rubs his temple. "I… it doesn't matter. The fob watch held my bio data. Nothing that happens to my body while I'm human stays that way. Well, except ageing." He shrugs. "Time Lord technology. Won't undo the effects of Time." His eyes are darting back and forth, like he's trying to get into his accustomed lecture mode, but failing.

Rose looks up at him, a sudden feeling of relief flooding her. "So your liver's fine?"

"Don't have a liver, actually. But the equivalent…" He briefly closes his eyes, frowning in concentration. "Yeah, 's fine. Both of them."

Jack snorts. "Wish we'd known. All this time I thought I was helping you slowly kill yourself, and just hoping like hell that the day you said we should turn you back would arrive before you succeeded." He's looking at his feet, rubbing his neck.

The Doctor walks down the ramp, stops just a few steps from them. "Listen. You two… 'S sweet that you even care, after… But you did _fine_. Better 'n fine. Hell, with the situation I put you in, I'm surprised you didn't just go on holiday with the TARDIS credit card an' leave me to rot."

She looks up abruptly. "We'd never! God, Doctor, we'd never…" She takes a step towards him, tries to hug him – but he quickly steps back, avoiding her.

"Don't." He hunches his shoulders, shaking his head.

"But…" Jack steps closer to the Doctor, only to be evaded as well. "You just said you weren't angry at us."

"'M not."

"Then why won't you let us touch you?" Jack asks.

"Yeah," Rose agrees. "An' what was that 'bout taking us to London?"

The Doctor looks back and forth between them. "You… you don't want to leave, then?"

"Hell, no!" Jack blurts out.

Rose shakes her head emphatically. "Why would we?" She stretches out her hand to the Doctor, and this time he doesn’t draw back, but he doesn’t take it, either. "We just got you back."

"I… the past three months… What you went through… I remember it all. An' I can see now, knowing what I know 'bout you – I know it must have torn you apart. John Smith knew you hated to see him suffer but - _I_ know I put you through hell."

"Well," Jack starts. "Yeah, it wasn't really how we'd pictured it. I mean, I knew the Chameleon Arch wasn't going to make you Prime Minister or anything, but I thought it'd be some kind of decent existence… I was all geared up to work in construction alongside you, or help you plow fields. Shirtless." He grins, making Rose roll her eyes. But looking at Jack, she can see that it's bravery, not humor.

She turns to the Doctor and asks, "What went wrong? Did the Arch malfunction?"

The Doctor shakes his head. He shuffles his feet. "No, it didn't. I did."

"How'd you mean?" Jack asks. His tone is deceptively light.

The Doctor turns from them, but not before Rose sees the shame in his eyes. "The transformation is… a complex process. Many variables and feedback loops. Must have rejected you."

"Rejected us!" Rose takes three quick steps to catch up to the Doctor. She puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls, making him turn around. "Rejected?"

"Not like that! Never like that! You know I… I… You know what you mean to me."

"Yeah." Jack comes closer, puts a hand on each of their shoulders. The Doctor shudders, but lets him. "We know you love us, and though now would be an excellent time for you to actually get the words out, we're willing to take 'em as read. But you need to explain that 'rejection' thing." He gives a lopsided grin. "Could make a guy feel pretty rejected otherwise."

Rose giggles. The joke is weak, but it's so good to feel a bit of the tension dissipate. There's even a quick quirk to the corner of the Doctor's mouth. Jack is good at this. Keeping conversations going even through rough patches has always been one of his strengths.

The Doctor takes a deep breath. "Right. Come on, then." He turns and strides towards the door.

"Hey, wait!" Rose hurries after him. "Where are we going?"

"Something I need to show you. Should have shown you long ago." He's avoiding her eyes again, walking ahead of them in long strides. Jack takes Rose's hand and squeezes it in a gesture of silent solidarity, and they follow quickly.

*****

He leads them through corridors and up and down staircases Jack has never seen before. From the confused look on Rose’s face, he’d bet she hasn’t, either. Finally the Doctor stops in the middle of a long, doorless corridor. It's sparsely lit, eerily silent, and a good deal cooler than the rest of the TARDIS. “Look.” He briefly touches the wall and the corridor becomes brighter, though there's no obvious light source.

Jack looks around. He didn’t notice it before in the dim light, but there are pictures hanging on both walls. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Paintings, drawings, photographs, holograms, nanopictorials, and a few things he has no name for. He slowly wanders along the gallery – for clearly that’s what it is – Rose besides him. The Doctor is following a few steps behind. Jack keeps an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t try to slip away, but the Time Lord seems resigned now.

The pictures show a world of red grass and trees full of silver leaves. There are tall, magnificent buildings. Vast mountain ranges. Two suns hanging in an orange sky. A few of the pictures portrait people – tall, serious-looking men and woman, wearing ornate robes and looking as if they’re pondering the secrets of the universe. A hologram reveals what looks like a black abyss filled with some kind of energy – Jack can’t look at it for long, it makes him queasy.

Lastly, there’s a huge mural, taller than should be possible given the height of the corridor. It shows a proud building of towers and spires standing under a mighty crystal dome. He stands gazing at it for a long time, Rose by his side. When he looks around, he sees the Doctor leaning against the opposite wall, watching them wistfully.

“The Citadel of the Time Lords,” he explains.

Rose turns around. “This is your world?”

“It was.”

It’s not until now that Jack registers that the background hum of the TARDIS sounds like a sorrowful keening here. He reaches out to stroke the wall, and feels it cold under his touch.

The Doctor looks at them, his eyes black and full of pain. “I burned this. Everything you see here, I destroyed. All the people, I killed. Every last man, woman, and child. Burned them to cinders until there was nothing left."

Jack gulps. He knows there's nothing he can say that will make this any better.

But Rose doesn’t. "It wasn't your fault! You had to, to save the universe from the Daleks!" she protests.

The Doctor looks straight at Jack. A soldier's gaze. A gaze that asks him to explain what the Doctor can't find the words for.

"Makes no difference, Rose." Jack puts an arm around her shoulders, but keeps his eyes on the Doctor. "The things you do in a war, no matter how necessary they are, stay with you. The destruction, the death – you don't feel any less guilty about it because you had no choice."

The Doctor nods. "Yeah. You don't." He looks along the gallery, and Jack notices his eyes lingering briefly on the picture of a woman. She's wearing the robes of a Time Lady, so there's no telling how old she is, but her face is wrinkled, and there are some strands of white in her hair.

"After I destroyed all this, after I killed… I went a bit crazy for a while. Maybe more than a bit." His shuttered expression forestalls questions. "Coulda lost myself completely. But I didn't. And there are three reasons why not." He takes a deep breath, and turns to stare at the mural.

Jack stands next to him, not touching, but trying to offer silent support simply by being there. Rose stands on the Doctor's other side. She takes his hand, and he lets her.

"The first thing," the Doctor begins, "was the TARDIS. After Gallifrey burned, she and I were the only ones left. She was the only living being who shared my memories, felt my pain." He puts a hand on the mural, and Jack notices a shift in the TARDIS's background hum. A deeper resonance, an eerie sound he's almost sure his human ears are only picking up part of.

The Doctor continues. "She too had lost her home and her entire species that day, and she grieved in her own way. And she kept me alive, and sane. More or less. Keepin' my body alive was the easy part, but she also healed my mind, talked to me in my nightmares, nurtured me back to the point where I could start traveling again. And then she showed me there were still miracles in the universe."

Jack's never been good at active telepathy, but he knows the TARDIS is already in his mind, so he tries to convey his gratefulness to her in thought. He knows she's heard him when a warm, comforting breeze whispers through his mind.

"That's the second thing keeping me sane. The universe. Not just because it's big and exciting and fantastic." He smiles at Rose, who smiles back and leans against his shoulder for a moment. "Mostly because I'm responsible for it." The smile vanishes. "Universe is pretty resilient, but sometimes it needs looking after, and I'm the only one left who can do it. So I have to go on, because if I don't…" His voice trails off.

"The third thing that keeps me sane…" The Doctor steps back, letting go of Rose's hand, and looks at both of them entreatingly. "Well… you know."

"Then why reject us?" Rose asks quietly. "If we're so important to you, why did you tell the Chameleon Arch to shut us out?"

"Not that simple." The Doctor sighs. "See, the Chameleon Arch's just a machine. Quite a clever machine, yes, but stupid like any computer's stupid. Doesn't really know what a 'suitable' life is. So the way it works is, it transforms my mind until it's practically human, and then it offers it options – ways I could live that wouldn't disturb any important timelines – places, times, careers that are far from any weak points."

"So you rejected all the options with us?" Jacks asks, trying to sound matter-of-fact about it.

"Must have. Don't actually remember that part, but… I reckon I rejected anything even remotely pleasant, an' the two of you in particular."

Jack nods. He gets it now.

Rose takes a step closer to the Doctor, takes his hand, frowning up at him. "But why?"

The Doctor folds her hand in both of his. "When the Arch… asked me, for lack of a better term, how I wanted to live, it'd already made my mind almost human. Most of my knowledge about myself – my memories – was still there, because that's what I was supposed to base the decision on. But I wasn't really a Time Lord anymore. No connection to the TARDIS's mind, no sensation of the vastness of the universe resting on my shoulders. Just abstract ideas."

Rose nods. "Your first two things were gone."

"Yeah. Well, at least I didn't really know about them anymore. Didn't comprehend them the way I usually do. And without them…" He shrugs helplessly. "Without them there was nothing to redeem me. No way I could ever deserve you two." His mouth is a thin line and his posture is rigid. "Strip away the TARDIS an' the Time Lord, and I have nothing to offer you."

Jack's about to say something, but before he can, Rose takes a step back, pulls her hand from the Doctor's grasp, and slaps the Time Lord across the face. Yep, that about covers it.

The Doctor looks at her, a mixture of confusion and acceptance on his face.

"You're a right moron, you know that?" Rose demands, poking her finger in the Doctor's chest. "Where do you get off thinking we only care about the TARDIS and the flashy Time Lord stuff? It's you we love, you enormous git!" She shoves his shoulder.

The Doctor turns to Jack, his eyes wide in a plea for help.

"Don't look at me. You're a complete idiot for thinking you need to offer us anything, and if Rose wasn't standing between you and me, I'd be only too happy to back up that statement with a right hook."

Rose abruptly takes a step sideways. "Don't let me stop you."

The Doctor looks at Jack. His hands are hanging loosely by his sides, his shoulders are down. Clearly he's not going to defend himself if Jack really decides to deck him.

So Jack goes for the contrary option. He steps closer and folds the Time Lord into a tight hug. "You're a stupid fucking idiot. And I love you." He feels a tremor running up and down the Doctor's spine, and then a sound between a laugh and a sob whispers past his ear.

The Doctor pulls back, but puts his right hand on Jack's left shoulder, squeezing gently. With his left, he nudges Rose closer to Jack, until he can look at them both at the same time. The Doctor takes a deep breath. "Captain Jack Harkness. Rose Marion Tyler." He laughs, and for the first time in months, it lights up his eyes. "I have no bloody idea how you put up with me, but I love you."

Rose doesn’t say a word, she just steps forward and presses her lips to the Doctor's. Their kiss is long and deep. When they break apart, the Doctor turns to Jack with a smile. "Did you want one of those as well, or d'you want to stick with your first idea? 'Cause I'd still take the punch." It's said lightly, but the Doctor's eyes say he means it. The last of the Time Lords, offering love and penance to Jack Harkness, intergalactic playboy and conman. Jack swallows down hysterical laughter as he steps in to claim his kiss.

When they break apart, the three of them stand for a long time with their arms around each other, not speaking, just enjoying the closeness.

Rose breaks the spell by asking very quietly. "So… is John really dead?" Jack winces inwardly. He understands that Rose is asking out of compassion, but this is not a good time to bring up John.

The Doctor takes a step back, rubbing his neck. "Well… he's not a person anymore. But everything he was is still a part of me." He eyes darken. "Including the bad stuff."

Jack grins lopsidedly, hoping to keep the mood from darkening further. "Do I need to hide the hypervodka?"

The Doctor shakes his head, but looks at him seriously. "Not that. I meant… the rage, the aggression."

Jack shrugs. "Always knew you could be a hard-nosed bastard at times." He doesn’t need an apology, he just needs his lover to be the Doctor again.

Rose puts an arm around the Doctor's waist and squeezes. "John wasn't that bad."

"The things he… I said." The Doctor's still looking at Jack. "Even spat at you."

Jack steps forward, right into the Doctor's personal space. He presses his lips on the Doctor's and demands entry with his tongue. The Doctor's eyes are confused, but he lets him in, and Jack plunders the Doctor's mouth, running his tongue across his teeth, over the Doctor's tongue, and as deep into his throat as physiologically possible.

He pulls back, but keeps his body pressed against the Doctor's. Looks at him, arching an eyebrow. "Do I give the impression that I have a problem with your saliva?" He puts a hand on the Doctor's zip and very slowly caresses his bulge with a thumb. He can feel the Doctor's cock twitch in reaction, straining against his jeans. "Or other bodily fluids?" Jack continues, baring his teeth in a grin.

"Jack. You're impossible." The Doctor laughs and thrusts his hips forward helplessly. "Don't deserve you, me."

The words wash over Jack like iced water, destroying all playfulness. To hell with lightening the mood. He abruptly tightens his grip, digging in his fingertips just enough to bite.

The Doctor jumps back with a yelp. "What the-"

"I don't want to hear any more of that self-depreciating bullshit!" Jack squares his shoulders, stepping right back into the Doctor's personal space. Rose is watching them wide-eyed, but doesn’t interfere.

The Doctor looks at Jack, cocking his head with a wounded expression.

Jack doesn’t relent. "I need to know that you believe that we love you, and that you're worth it. You. Not the TARDIS, not the Time Lord stuff. Just you. Grumpiness, big ears and all." He makes sure his expression shows that he's dead serious. "Because if anything like this ever happens again, I need to know that you won't put Rose through the same hell. It almost destroyed her."

The Doctor's eyes flick to Rose, who's chewing her bottom lip anxiously. His face is tense, and he looks like he's searching for something to say.

Rose puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Jack, no. It's o-"

"Don't you say it's okay. You cried yourself to sleep every night!" This is too important to sugarcoat it for the Doctor's benefit. He sees the Time Lord hunch his shoulders and bite his lip. It's clearly an effort for the Doctor to keep looking at them, but he does.

"So did you! You just held it in until you thought I was asleep!" Rose protests, and the Doctor draws a sharp breath.

Damn. Caught. Jack didn't realize Rose had heard him. But it's besides the point. "That's what I'm saying!" He turns back to the Doctor. "This was way, way too hard, and all because you don't believe you deserve… well, anything good. You need to fucking accept that you do. Because it wasn't just John Smith who suffered for your guilt and self-hate."

The Doctor cringes, but holds Jack's gaze. "Can't promise that, but I'll try." His voice is brittle with apprehension and raw honesty. "That enough?"

Jack takes a deep breath. He looks at Rose, looks at the Doctor, and finally nods. "For now. But don't think the topic's closed. I'll want to _see_ you try."

The Doctor frowns. "How do you mean?"

Jack shrugs. Not like emotional issues are his specialty. "Talk, I guess. No more wearing your pain under the surface like a fucking hair shirt. Telling us what you need." He feels somewhat hypocritical demanding this – but he's not asking for his own sake, he's asking for Rose's.

"Yeah," Rose agrees, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Jack. "He's right, Doctor. You say you love us. Let us help."

The Doctor looks away, focusing on the mural again. "I… I don't know. The things I keep to myself are … not a light burden."

"And haven't we proved by now that we can carry heavy ones?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Jack knows he's won the point. The Doctor's eyes are on him, sharp and clear, and he gives a brief, decisive nod.

"Course you have. We'll do it your way. Seen where mine leads, haven't we?"

Rose puts her arms around the Doctor. "Thank you. For trusting us."

"Got no right not to," the Doctor says simply. He wraps one arm around Rose and holds the other out to Jack.

Jack hesitates. The Doctor's gaze turns pleading. "I _will_ hold you to your word, Doc," Jack says.

The Doctor nods. "What I keep you around for." It's said with a grin, but the look he gives Jack is sincere.

Jack nods. He understands. Keeping the Doctor honest is his role in this relationship. Well, one of them. Has been from the start, when he called the Doctor on his unfairness towards Rose in the events surrounding her father's death. He steps into the Doctor's embrace and leans his face against the Time Lord's shoulder. "It's so good to have you back." He's not ashamed at the slight tremble in his voice, nor the moisture in his eyes that the Doctor can probably feel on the exposed skin of his neck. When the Doctor pulls him closer and drops a kiss on his forehead, mumbling thanks, he just relaxes into the touch. Right here, right now, the Doctor's taking charge again. And Jack couldn't be happier.

"So…" the Doctor begins after a while, his voice amused, but with an undertone of shyness. "Haven't been close to another living being in three months, me. Well, except for when Jack was fixing me up. Good job, by the way."

Jack takes half a step back, so the Doctor's arm is still around him but he's no longer leaning against the Time Lord. "Are you propositioning us?" He flutters his eyelashes playfully.

"As I said. Three months. You two still had each other, but I…" He stills as Rose shakes her head. "You didn't?"

Jack shrugs. "Tried it once or twice. Didn't feel right." It wasn't so much that it was only him and Rose – they've always occasionally had sex as pairs if one of them was tired or otherwise not available – it was knowing how miserable John Smith was, worrying about him, feeling guilty for failing him. A quick wank here and there was just easier than trying to pleasure one of your partners while both of you were thinking about the wretchedness of the third.

Now the Doctor's blushing. "Great. What I needed. Something else to apologize for."

Rose grins, curling her tongue around her teeth. "Don't apologize. Make up for it."

Jack laughs. "Seconded."

The Doctor grins and, keeping an arm around each of them, starts walking towards their bedroom. "Excellent idea, that. Will make it up to you so thoroughly you'll need the next three days to recover."

"Promises, promises," Jack teases, earning himself the smack on the ass he's been hoping for.

"Oi! Are you doubting my dedication to the cause? I'll show you!"

And he does. Repeatedly.

*****

The first time is gentle, almost shy. Rediscovering each other, aware of the time that has passed, the slights, the barely healed wounds. They give and take reverently, with many whispered reassurances and requests for permission.

The second time is urgent, driven. Needs that have been burning for months, their embers a dull, aching glow, have flared up after the first taste of satisfaction. Now they need more, faster, harder, again. They are sure now, certain of wanting and being wanted. But they're nowhere near sated yet.

They lose count after that, and just keep touching, giving, taking as instinct and emotions drive them. The urgency abates after a while, becomes slow and languid tenderness. It's not about the sex anymore, just about the closeness, about skin on skin, about trust. It's better than sex, because it demands nothing. They just give, and give, eager to share themselves in ways they haven't for so long.

*****

Much, much later, the Doctor lies sandwiched between his sleeping humans. Rose is on his left, her head on his shoulder, soft hair tickling his neck. She has one hand on his chest, the other in his hair, and one leg is possessively hooked over his hips, her soft skin stroking him with every breath he takes.

Jack, on his right, is not much better. His face is burrowed in the Doctor's neck, his warm breath filling the crook of the Doctor's shoulder. Jack's arm is curled around his waist, and he's somehow managed to wrap both of his legs tightly around the Doctor's right one, one kneecap poking into the Doctor's left thigh.

All in all, there's nothing he can do except lie perfectly still and watch them sleep.

He lets the seconds slip by, turn into minutes and hours, with nothing but the slightest shifts from his companions.

Finally, Jack wakes up. His 51st century body needs less sleep than Rose's. He raises his head, eyes bleary, and takes in their little tableau. Then he turns his gaze on the Doctor.

"Sorry," he says. "Let's see if we can get you out of here without waking Rose…" He attempts to disentangle their legs, but seems flummoxed by the task.

The Doctor smiles and pulls him closer, tucking Jack's head under his chin. "Nah, 's all right, lad. Go back to sleep. I'm fine here." He rubs a hand between Jack's shoulder blades and adds, "This time, I really am." Just then, Rose snuggles deeper into his shoulder, as if to express agreement.

He feels Jack's soft chuckle against his skin before the lad drifts off again, and the Doctor is once again the only one awake, wedged between his companions so tightly he can't move as much as an inch.

He doesn’t think he's ever been this happy.

  


The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sahiya's prompt: _This is a little more specific than I usually get with my prompts, but I would like to see what might happen if the Doctor were forced into using the Chameleon Arch while with Jack and Rose. I would be happy to see this in either the_ Deal _'verse or_ TWLTB _. It does not need to be a straight rewrite of_ Human Nature/Family of Blood _, though you can do that if you want. What I'm really interested in is seeing how the others cope and how they take care of the Doctor while he's human (and how it does or doesn't change things for them once it's over)._


End file.
